Writing with Rox WEEKLY—I want you to show me...

If you're anywhere near my age you likely remember belting it out in the car, or cranking it up in your bedroom when no one was home, perhaps lying in bed, paralyzed by love's woozy grip, picturing yourself on a tropical island ("Blue Lagoon"?) in a saucy embrace... "I want to know what love is... I want you to show me... I want to feel what love is... I know you can show me..."

I had no way of knowing at the time—the time being 1984—as I rewound this "lame" song that no one my age admitted liking, over and over again, shortly after my boyfriend took me to the Rolling Stones concert and then broke my heart the next day. No way of knowing that thirty years later I would be singing that same song, only a spiritual "cover" version, with a room full of Bhakti yogis, eyes rolling back in their heads, arms stretched toward the heavens, just outside of Madison Wisconsin. Had you told me that at the time, in fact, I likely would have said you were mistaking my life for a David Lynch movie. Not so fast, young, tortured teenage, heartsick, Rox. Not so fast. You've got a lot to learn about love, yet.

Indeed life is a constant lesson in love, is it not? But that's what love looks like when you are 13 in Los Angeles in 1984.  And then it morphs and moves around and gets old and stays loyal here and disloyal there. And then we learn it isn't what we thought it is. And then we realize it's nothing at all like we hoped it was because it's much better, and bigger and all encompassing and includes everyone... And we learn about the Dalai Lama. And Thich Nhat Hanh and lovingkindness... and eventually we realize love's a verb not a noun or it's a state of mind or it's like that great book or movie or love song...well, all that and more. And then we are back where we started from: head over heals in love, lovestruck, lovesick, heartbroken, hopeful...until we are chanting "I wanna know what love is" with a bunch of Hind-Jews, many of them wearing turbans. 

All true, but what does all that look like? And what does that have to do with Foreigner? Well. Back to basics. Back to showing "what does that look like?" Why do I ask? Because love is the courier, the fuel of our stories, the ones we live, the ones we write. Not only are there people we love, but there are also things and places and mommies and daddies and summer camps and music...god, do we ever love music. And don't even get us started on our children. And pets... 

We can love these things in our lives and it shows. When we write, it's not enough to just say it (I mean it is, but you know what I'm saying); for us to love what, how, and who you love right along with you on the page, we've got to see what that looks like.

Here's what love looks like for me: Well...admittedly, chanting  alongside a bunch of yogis just outside of Madison Wisconsin on a beautiful summer day. Laughing blissfully, picturing myself doing this on a (very) regular basis, the image of Valley Girl me chanting words in Sanskrit, cowside, for turning out so far from the person I thought I ever would be.  

Love is writing around the table here at The Beach and reading something and when I look up everyone is looking at me that certain way, a few of them crying

Love is a student naming the Beach, the Beach. 

Love is Jude surrounding himself in his stuffed animals and putting his head on my shoulder when I read The Hobbit to him in his bed. It's also Jude unexpectedly taking my hand when we walk to the bus stop. 

Love is breathing into my heart. Love is breathing back-to-back with someone, feeling the rise and fall together. 

Love is falling into fits of hysterical laughter with Jude because the sound of soy milk pouring over the Cheerios at 6 am cracks us up.

Love is singing "You Ain't Goin' Nowhere" with Debmama and Two Cute Face.

Love is my brother eulogizing my dad by remembering the story about a piece of property he had in the mountains, deciding whether or not he should sell it, wanting to keep it "so others had a place to go."

Love is Ma embellishing a Hallmark card with exclamation points and drawings on Jude's 8th birthday card.

Love is knowing someone so well you can predict their micromovements and mannerisms, before they even know they're coming.  

Love is yoga.

Gosh, I could go on because love is writing. Writing endlessly about what love looks like is love. Love is feeling the loops and dots and lines and curves that form words reflected in the shapes and breath of my body.

Okay, one more: 

Love is laughing at corny jokes like "Nine runs into a friend at the coop who doesn't recognize her because she looks like Six. So she says to the friend at the coop,  It's me! Nine! From yoga class!"

WRITE WITH ME? WHAT DOES LOVE LOOK LIKE FOR YOU, RIGHT HERE, RIGHT NOW? "LOVE IS..."

PLEASE WRITE WITH ME AND SHARE. BUT EVEN IF YOU DON'T, I STILL LOVE YOU AND WISH YOU A VERY HAPPY, SWEET, HEART-CENTERED VALENTINE'S DAY. XOXO